


Something Borrowed

by EmilianaDarling



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (kinda), Character Study, Developing Friendships, Fluff, Historical Perspective, M/M, Weddings, gif warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2168631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilianaDarling/pseuds/EmilianaDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Steve's got it into his head that you’ve done more for him than he can ever pay you back for. He’s grateful.”</p><p>(Sam’s taking Steve as a guest to his sister’s wedding, but first he and Bucky have a few things to sort out.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Borrowed

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I'd like to let you know that this story was supposed to take a few days to write at most; a quick and cheery little ficlet for everyone to enjoy. Somehow, though, a combination of real life busyness and agonizing writer's block has made it take about a million times longer than I originally intended. Thank you guys so much for your patience; I truly hope you enjoy! (Look, ma, I wrote something ~~fairly~~ happy!)
> 
> Second of all: a million thank yous to [starkpanda](http://starkpanda.tumblr.com), without whom I'd still be staring at my computer and tearing my hair out. Thank you so for volunteering to beta read this for me and for all your helpful comments! (She also gets full credit for the title.)
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the story, and please do let me know what you think! \0/

“Well?” says Steve, the words drifting over to Sam and Bucky from where Steve is standing in the doorway. His voice sounds ever-so-slightly on edge; as though he’s trying and failing to hide the fact that he wants their approval. “What do you think?”

The three of them are in the kitchen of Steve and Bucky’s apartment, mid-morning sunlight filtering in through the no-nonsense blinds on the windows. Leaning back in his chair, coffee mug already raised to his lips, Sam pauses just long enough to share a pointed look with Bucky over the rim. They’ve both been camped out at the kitchen table for a while now, and it’s been long enough that Sam is starting to question every decision that brought him to this moment.

Across from him, Bucky’s mouth just twitches unreadably in response. It’s just a flicker of expression, there and gone so quickly that Sam isn’t entirely sure he didn’t imagine it. It could be exasperation, it could be anger – it could be total indifference. Whatever it is, the man’s completely stone-faced again in what seems like less than a heartbeat. 

Smothering a snort, Sam dutifully swallows his mouthful of coffee and lowers his mug to the table before turning in his seat to take a look.

Steve is standing in the doorway that connects the hallway to the kitchen, a subtly self-conscious hunch to his shoulders and a small but cautiously optimistic smile on his face. Sam looks him up and down, taking in the beige pants and the dark green button-up; the way his sleeves are rolled up to the elbow.

Feeling like a boyfriend outside a department store changing room, Sam nods in what he hopes is a vaguely approving fashion.

“Sure, man,” says Sam, trying to sound _encouraging_ instead of _disinterested as hell_. “You look fine.”

For a moment, Steve looks almost pleased with himself – before Bucky lets out a deliberately loud snort of derision from across the table.

“Seriously, Rogers?” Bucky asks, his voice dripping with mocking disbelief, and _wow_. That’s… a hell of a lot different than Sam’s ever heard him sound like before. Sam freezes for a half-second before consciously forcing himself to relax, then turns slowly in his chair. In a quick scan, Sam takes in the quirk of Bucky’s eyebrow; the almost _cheeky_ look of disapproval on his face. “C’mon. It’s a spring wedding, not a picnic in the park.”

And for a second Sam just… _blinks_ at him. Because yeah, no one can deny that Bucky’s been doing a lot better lately. Steve’s been reporting that he gets at least a solid five hours of sleep most nights nowadays, and he even joined the two of them on one of their morning runs last week.

But this is the first time that Sam’s actually _seen_ him make a jibe at Steve that doesn’t seem forced or muted, all tight smiles and tensed-up shoulders and hollowed-out eyes. That doesn’t make him look like he’s pretending to be someone he isn’t. There’s a smirk on his lips and his chin’s tilted upwards, and there’s a squareness to his shoulders that Sam doesn’t remember being there before.

His hair is too long and his face is too shadowed, but it’s still the first time Sam’s ever been able to look at him and really _see_ Bucky Barnes the way the history textbooks always presented him.

There are only half a dozen photos of Bucky Barnes from before the war, back when he was a working class kid that nobody’d ever heard of rather than a national hero. The history books tend to cycle through them over and over: a slightly blurred snapshot of Bucky and Steve walking down a New York street, Steve looking small and focused and Bucky looking downright aggressive. A fifth grade class photo taken on the steps of a worn brick building, a ten-year-old Bucky barely distinguishable from all the other little white kids in their paperboy caps and hairbows. A badly-framed photograph of Bucky and what can only be his mother, him sitting loose-limbed on a chair as she smiles brightly down at him.

The one of Bucky grinning at the camera has always been the most popular, though. The most iconic. The one that everyone puts in high school textbooks and on the cover of his biographies.

The photo itself must’ve been taken when Steve was at art school because it was taken on a decent camera; Bucky, relaxed and easy and with a hint of cockiness in his eyes, a smile curling at the edge of his lips. Hair slicked back and wearing a rumpled button-up, looking right at the camera and _smiling_ as though he had wanted to bring whomever was behind it in on the joke.

He looks like that now, Sam thinks. Or at least the closest Sam’s seen him get so far.

There are a few moments where none of them speak – before Steve glances down at himself and wrinkles his nose.

“People dress more casual at weddings nowadays,” says Steve, nodding his head in Sam’s direction. “Sam told me.”

Slowly, Bucky turns in his seat to look at Sam with pointedly raised eyebrows.

“And what’re _you_ wearing?” Bucky asks, feigning polite curiosity.

“Suit and tie,” Sam replies with a shrug, “but it is _my_ _sister’s_ wedding.” He’s trying not to imagine what Casey would think about this conversation, because if he does there’s no way he’ll be able to keep himself from laughing.

Across the table, Bucky leans back in his chair with his eyebrows raised, hands lifted into the air palm-out as though his point has been made beyond all dispute.

With a roll of his eyes, Steve turns to head back down the hallway towards his bedroom.

“You’re a laugh riot, you know that?” Steve gripes as he goes, but he’s already unbuttoning the shirt.  

“Ditch the khakis and then we’ll talk!” Bucky calls after him, smirking a bit – but as soon as Steve is out of sight he turns and gives Sam and almost _cheeky_ look from across the table.

Sam lets out an unflattering snort.

“That was _brutal_ , man,” says Sam, eyebrows high on his forehead. He picks up his coffee cup to take another sip, and so far no one has mentioned the fact that he’s using today’s newspaper as a coaster. (Steve and Bucky are literally the only two people he knows who still get a paper copy of the news every day.) It’s funny, yeah, but Sam’s still more than a little cautious when he speaks again. “Way to bring the poor guy down.”

In all honesty, Sam is half-expecting Bucky to react poorly to having his attitude thrown back at him – if only because it’s been hard to tell, some days, how the guy will react to things. Bucky really hadn’t seemed to like him at all during the first few weeks they spent together on the road in Eastern Europe, something Steve had either never realized or had pointedly avoided noticing. It had made for more than a few tense silences and nervous moments at first.

They seem to be more than all right now, though – friends even, most days, when Bucky bothers talking to anyone except Steve. Sam’s not entirely sure if they’re at the “giving each other shit” stage just yet, but it’s too late to go back now.

Instead of clamming up, though, Bucky just cocks his head to one side. He catches Sam’s eyes, and the expression on his face reminds Sam of that photo again; laid-back and easy, with a half-grin curling at his mouth.

“What? Don’t you want him to look decent?” Bucky asks, not backing down at all, and Sam chokes on a surprised laugh.

“Dude, he is _Captain America_ ,” says Sam, emphasizing Steve’s title as though he’s trying to prove a point. He shakes his head. “Man could show up wearing nothing but an American flag around his waist and my family would still be going out of their minds to see him.” He shakes his head again, letting out a little huff of laughter before taking another sip of coffee. “I still just can’t believe he agreed to come in the first place.”

The words are light-hearted, teasing – but out of the corner of his eyes, Sam sees the way that Bucky stiffens almost unnoticeably when he says it.

“Can’t you?” says Bucky, and his voice is too flat for it to be a question. His posture is still ostensibly relaxed, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at Sam right now that that makes Sam falter a little. A considering look in his cool blue eyes, slightly narrowed and very focused, and all at once it strikes Sam that there’s something very _Winter Soldier_ about the tight way he’s holding himself.

Even though his metal arm is covered up beneath a long-sleeved gray shirt, Bucky’s fingers still glint when they catch the light in the right way.

Sam very pointedly doesn’t react with surprise at the change in demeanour; just lowers his coffee cup down onto the table and quietly coaxes his posture into something non-threatening. This isn’t worrisome – not yet – but it never hurts to be braced for the worst just in case.

“How do you mean?” asks Sam, forcing the words to come out casual. 

In response, Bucky just gives him a deeply but quietly judgemental look that very clearly articulates just how much he thinks Sam is being a colossal moron right now. It also fucks up his whole ‘deadly-assassin, I-could-kill-you-any-second-with-your-coffee-spoon’ vibe pretty thoroughly, and some of the tension in Sam’s arms and shoulders relaxes a fraction.

After a few moments of silence, Sam raises an eyebrow at him. Bucky huffs out a quietly disbelieving breath of air. 

“He thinks he owes you,” says Bucky bluntly, shrugging as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. As though his respect for Sam’s intelligence has gone down a few pegs at his inability to grasp such a simple fact.

And… what?

“I… wait, come again?” asks Sam, shaking his head and blinking stupidly in a way that probably doesn’t help Bucky’s impression of him right now. He leans in a little over the table, lowering his voice as though they’re sharing some kind of dirty secret.

And yeah, Sam can tell at a glance that it’s taking all of Bucky’s restraint to hold back from rolling his eyes, but Sam doesn’t back down – and after a minute Bucky gives in and elaborates. 

“From what Steve’s told me,” says Bucky, shoulders a little hunched and eyes fixed on the table rather than on Sam himself, “when he asked you to get involved in all this – to help take down Hydra, to help him find me – you said yes right away. No hesitation or nothing, right?”

“Steve didn’t ask me to do anything,” Sam replies automatically, used to correcting people because Steve always seems to get that part of the story mixed up in the telling. “Whatever he told you, I offered both times.”

For a split second, Sam can see something both fond and exasperated flicker to life in Bucky’s eyes. 

“Of course he did,” Bucky mutters, half under his breath – before briskly shaking the softness out of his gaze. “Look, the point is that you went with him,” Bucky continues, staring hard at the table. “You dropped everything for him, Sam. Went half-way around the world with him, put up with the nightmare I’ve been all this time.” A sharp glare effectively cuts off the protests on the tip of Sam’s tongue. Bucky catches his eyes, holds his gaze. “Steve’s got it into his head that you’ve done more for him than he can ever pay you back for. He’s grateful.”

Bucky pauses, gives him a quietly meaningful look. The _and so am I_ goes unspoken, but it still rings loudly in the space between them.

It’s the most Bucky’s said without Steve around for a long time, and but Sam is too struck dumb by the actual content of his words to be proud of him for it. He settles for raising his eyebrows and staring at Bucky with his mouth hanging open a little, his brain still trying to catch up with the conversation.

Just as he’s about to say something, though, Steve’s voice cuts through the silence. 

“How about this?” Steve asks, the words clear and solid.

The difference his appearance makes on Bucky’s demeanour cannot be underestimated. It’s as though someone has flicked a switch, because suddenly there’s no way to tell by looking at him that he and Sam have been having a serious conversation. Sam blinks, but Bucky is already lazing back in his seat, dragging his eyes over Steve’s body with ease – before he actually takes in what he’s wearing.

“You’re shitting me,” says Bucky, completely deadpan, and when Sam turns to take a look he understands why.

Steve is standing in the kitchen doorway wearing his formal dress uniform; the one the Smithsonian gave back to him after the Battle of New York so that he could make his official televised statement about his return to the nation. It’s _achingly_ old world, the dark green jacket nipped in at the waist only emphasizing how high waisted the green pants are. His medals are even pinned to the front of his jacket.

He looks great, of course, because Steve has an irritating habit of looking great in everything, and Sam can remember thinking how _commanding_ Steve had looked wearing this when he’d made his address on TV. But there’s something coiled-up and uncomfortable about the way he’s holding himself here and now – arms crossed over his chest, as though in an attempt to curl in on himself against unwanted attention – that makes Sam snort out a laugh without meaning to. Steve shoots him a betrayed look, and Sam holds up his hands palm-out in apology.

“Sorry, man,” says Sam with an apologetic smile. Part of his brain is still running over and over the things that Bucky said earlier, but he doesn’t think that any of it shows on his face. “You look good, you do.”

“You’ll look like you’re trying too hard if you wear that to someone’s wedding,” says Bucky matter-of-factly, and Steve gives him a look so flat that Sam can practically _feel_ the dry snark rolling off of him in waves.

“You wore yours to go to the _fair_ once,” says Steve, as though this is a tremendously unjust accusation to make, and Bucky just raises his eyebrows.

“And _I_ looked great,” he announces easily. “Don’t change the fact that _you’ll_ look like you’re trying too hard if you wear that to someone’s wedding.”

Steve throws his hands up in frustration.

“You are _such_ an ass,” says Steve, sounding exasperated – but Sam can see the hint of a smile on his mouth when he turns to leave and get changed again.

And seriously, Sam has to give Bucky credit for being the only person he’s ever met who can just _keep giving Steve shit_ without backing down or ever once pushing Steve to actual anger. Nat might talk a good game, but even she has limits that she isn’t willing to break; restrictions and guidelines and off-topic subjects that doubtlessly make perfect sense in the logic of her own head. It’s only been a few weeks since Bucky’s been able to even _think_ about being snarky with anyone, but now whenever the two of them get in the right mood they’re absolutely relentless towards each other.  

And then Steve is out the door and Bucky is turning his eyes back on Sam, his whole demeanour suddenly focused and intent again, and _Christ_ it’s unsettling how he can just snap back into it like that.

“It’s true, though,” says Bucky evenly, as though there was never a break in their conversation. “Steve hates the dog and pony show, hates being on parade and putting himself out there for people to gawk at, but he’d go to a hundred weddings and make a speech on the late night news if you asked him to.” Bucky shrugs. “He needed a friend, and you dropped everything to help him. Of course he thinks he owes you.”

And it’s… surreal, hearing it like that. Strange and profoundly _jarring_. Because Sam considers himself to be a perceptive guy, likes to think of himself as being generally self-aware. But it’s as though he’s suddenly had a glaring blind spot pointed out to him, because that… is such a profoundly different version of things than the way Sam’s been seeing it the whole time. 

And the thing is?

The thing is that Sam tries really, _really_ hard not to be star-struck by Steve. It had been something that had taken conscious effort, especially in the beginning. Steve had been a page from a history textbook staring back at him in vibrant technicolour, and that first day it had taken all of Sam’s self-control not to _stare_.

The first few times they met – in the park, at the VA – it had been all Sam could think about. An endless stream of _treat him like a soldier, treat him like a person, treat him like a man_ running through his head, all of it hidden behind easygoing smiles and deliberately relaxed posture.

Even now, Sam sometimes finds it hard to reconcile _Steve_ – who’s too proud to turn down wine whenever someone offers him a glass but can never hold back a slightly scrunched look of distaste when he takes a mouthful, who loves salt water taffy and sometimes jots down notes in his moleskine while he’s researching things on the internet rather than just opening up a Word document – with _Captain America_ , national icon and major historical figure. With the hero that every kid in America grew up hearing stories about.

Sam can play it cool with the best of them, but the fact that it had been _Captain America_ who had needed him – hell, who _still_ needs him, hasn’t stopped needing him since the day he showed up on Sam’s doorstep – is just a little bit too much for him to think about sometimes. A little too close to the wish-fulfillment fantasies he used to have as a kid, the ones with himself in the role of Gabriel Jones heroically leading the Howling Commandos to rescue Cap from certain death at Nazi hands.

People have always seen Sam as together, capable. Well-adjusted and ready to take on the world, even when that meant throwing himself out of the sky and down into the worst kind of danger. Riley had been the only one who’d been able to spot any of the fractures beneath the good-natured front, and he’d been too good of a guy to mention it half the time.

Even after Riley died, it hadn’t exactly been like he’d been left alone in the world. He has his family; his parents and sisters and nephews and nieces, and Sam’s always been good at making friends. He’s never had any difficulty finding someone to spend time with on a Friday night, someone to politely listen to him talk so long as he listens right back.

The hardest thing to get back after Riley’s death had been his sense of purpose. Leaving the military had left him feeling free, yeah, but it had also left him… adrift. Isolated, somehow, despite still being surrounded by people all the time. He’d used to be part of something larger than himself, and then he wasn’t. Used to know what he was fighting for – and then, suddenly, he wasn’t fighting at all.

Steve had given him back that sense of purpose the day he showed up on Sam’s doorstep, smeared with ash and looking exhausted with a desperately apologetic look on his face. Had trusted him and had faith in him and brought back that old certainty a hundredfold, had pulled Sam into a world where his actions _meant_ something again. Meant more than they ever had before.

It had been worth risking his life, worth travelling half-way around the world chasing a ghost that hadn’t wanted to be caught, for Sam to feel like what he was doing really mattered again. It had been like a fucking neon sign in the darkness: _Captain America needs you, time to get back in._

Time to be something bigger than yourself again.

Steve isn’t Riley. Could never be Riley, and there are parts of Sam that are probably never going to recover from the day he lost him. Until Steve came along, though, Sam hadn’t realized just how much he missed that camaraderie, that sense of purpose. The kind of easy friendship he hadn’t thought he’d ever be able to find again.

Sam’s just remembering the way Riley would raise thick eyebrows at him in wordless concern whenever Sam’s own smile would grow that little bit too strained, the way Riley was always able to put the people they rescued at ease so easily with a few gruff words – when he realizes that he’s been sitting here without talking for way too long, and that Bucky is frowning at him.

He coughs.

“Yeah, well,” says Sam at last, giving Bucky a smile that’s more grimace than grin. He shrugs, picking up his coffee cup again. It’s plain white ceramic; simple and functional just like everything else in Steve and Bucky’s kitchen. He takes a long drink of mostly-cold coffee, letting out a sardonic huff of amusement after he swallows. “Maybe Steve wasn’t the only one who needed a friend back then, you know?”

There’s a beat of silence – before something changes infinitesimally in Bucky’s expression. A tiny flash of surprise in Bucky’s eyes, a straightening in his back. The smallest furrow in his brow and the barest hint of a considering expression on his face.

It’s all stuff that would’ve been impossible for Sam to pick up on even a few months ago – but then again, the last few months have been one hell of a ride for all of them. It’s more than a little surreal that they’re having this conversation at all.

The silence between them stretches out, but Sam doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t break eye contact either. Just keeps holding Bucky’s gaze calmly and evenly; just keeps waiting for him to say something in return.

Finally, though, Bucky seems to reach a conclusion about something. The tension in his shoulders that Sam hadn’t even realized was building up bleeds out all at once, and the smallest hint of a quirked smile appears at the corner of Bucky’s mouth.

“Tell me about it,” Bucky drawls out at last, the words well-worn like an old joke. After a second Bucky gives his head a shake, narrowing in on Sam and tilting his head to one side. “He’ll go right on trying to pay you back until he thinks he’s made it up to you. You know that, right?”

Bucky’s posture and tone are carefully neutral, but all the same Sam thinks he can pick out a hint of solidarity underlying the words. As though the two of them are bonding over a shared experience, and Sam doesn’t have to have Bucky’s biography memorized to guess where this is coming from. 

He’s silent for a beat too long, trying to find the right words.

“Man, if he doesn’t want to come to my sister’s wedding, he doesn’t have to, you know?” Sam replies lamely, feeling somewhat caught off guard but not willing to show it.

“Pfft,” Bucky replies, rolling his eyes and leaning back in his chair. He stares up at the ceiling, projecting an air of carelessness that Sam knows is artificial. That doesn’t make it any less appreciated. “Let him go. It’ll make him feel good about himself.”

Laughing lightly, Sam relaxes into his seat. “Daresay it will,” he agrees, giving Bucky a smile over his coffee cup – before something else occurs to him.

Sam frowns.

“It... doesn’t bother you, does it?” Sam asks carefully, carefully keeping an eye out for Bucky’s reactions. “The fact that I invited him.”

Posture still laid-back and easy, Bucky waves him off. “Don’t worry about it,” says Bucky, his eyes still fixed on some point in the ceiling as he rocks a little on his tilted-back chair. An expression steals over his face that badly reminds Sam of that iconic picture of him again, even just in profile. Good-humoured and full of confidence, if perhaps a little more sardonic and self-deprecating. “Weddings really aren’t my style these days. You guys’ll have fun.”

“No, that’s not –” Sam begins, putting his coffee cup down on the table. He shakes his head, searching for the right words. “I mean… it’s just as friends, man. You know that, right?”

It’s true enough – Sam doesn’t really swing the right way to have any interest in Steve that like that, and it seems like something that Bucky should be aware of— but he knows it was the wrong thing to say by the way Bucky goes absolutely, perfectly still.

Bucky stops shifting in his chair with an instantaneousness that makes Sam’s breath catch in his throat, pausing mid-tilt as though commanded into rigidity. The relaxed posture is gone as though it was never there to begin with, all of the tension flooding back into his shoulders. Every hint of expression has been wiped off his face, leaving nothing but careful blankness in its wake.

He’s still like a sniper about to take a shot, perfectly still in the way the Winter Soldier used to be before bursting into violence.

 _Shit_ , Sam thinks, a hint of panic edging into the corners of his mind. _Shit, that’s not good._

“Sorry,” says Sam, trying to project an air of calm apology even as he desperately moves in for damage control. He’d thought… but maybe he’d been seeing things that weren’t there. “Hell, if I’m wrong –”

His words are cut off by a sharp bark of laughter. It’s a noise that sounds as though it’s been dredged up from the very pit of Bucky’s gut; hard and jagged and absolutely humourless. Bucky’s mouth is a tight line and the knuckles on his real hand are going white from where he’s clutching at the table. He lowers the front legs of his chair back down to the ground slowly and pointedly, as though it takes a conscious effort to do so.

“No,” says Bucky blankly, and Sam is genuinely surprised that he’s chosen to speak at all. He’s staring into the distance at something that Sam can’t see, a thousand-yard stare in a context Sam really isn’t used to seeing it in.

Bucky gives his head a shake, seems to pull himself at least partially out of his own head. He lets out a shaky breath, running his hand through his shaggy hair as he turns to face Sam again.

“No, you’re not wrong. It’s just…” He trails off, seemingly incapable of finding the right words. There is a long pause. “Complicated,” he settles on eventually, as though it’s the best he can come up with.

Sam nods slowly at the confirmation that at least _some_ of the things he’s suspected over the past few months are grounded in reality, and for a moment he’s genuinely uncertain whether to back off or continue pushing forward. 

Feeling very much like he’s tip-toeing through land mines, he decides to keep going.

“Were you… together… before?” Sam tries, because that at least must be more straightforward than the muddle of pain and confusion the world has been for Bucky ever since he came back from being the Winter Soldier.

Bucky just laughs, relaxing a little bit but still shaking his head. “Again, complicated,” he says, giving Sam a wry smile with a whole world of meaning behind it.

And yeah, Sam has no idea what the situation is between them. What their life was like before the war or during or hell, even right now. All of this is enough of a mess without bringing that particular flavour of complicated into it, and none of this is really any of his business in the first place.

But Sam also knows Steve well enough to recognize love and devotion when he sees it; to know that Steve would never ever make the first move while Bucky’s still hurting like this.

“Think you’re gonna do anything about it?” Sam asks neutrally, because he’s come this far already, and Bucky turns and pins him with a deeply startled look.

“I don’t –” Bucky begins, catching himself and pressing his lips together before he can say anything else. He frowns for a few moments, eyebrows furrowed and a whole different kind of unsettled tension in his shoulders. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says eventually, grimacing ever-so-slightly in a way that makes an old sympathy settle heavily in the pit of Sam’s stomach.

“Not a good idea for you, or for him?” Sam asks, and Bucky doesn’t say anything. Sam hefts a sigh, picking up the newspaper off the table and leafing to a random page so that he has something to do with his hands. He keeps his eyes fixed on the page as he speaks. “I don’t know, man. It’s up to you, but – you’ve both been through more shit than anyone has a right to, you know?” He shrugs, turning the page. “You guys deserve all the happiness you can get, is what I’m saying.”

After a few seconds of silence, Sam risks stealing a glance at Bucky over the top of the paper. He needn’t have worried about being caught out: Bucky seems to be entirely absorbed in his own thoughts, looking silently introspective but not nearly as closed-off as he’s been in the past. There’s uncertainty in his expression, and yeah – maybe even the smallest hint of tentative hope.

And the thing is, Sam took AP History in high school. Remembers the sizeable chunk of the World War II section of his textbook dedicated to the Howling Commandos, a two-page spread for each member as well as four pages dedicated to Captain America himself. It’s been a long time, yeah, but Sam definitely remembers coming away with the overall impression of Bucky Barnes as a charmer, a flirt. A big hit with the ladies. The transcribed words of old love letters and statements from a couple of girls he used to date back in Brooklyn printed onto the pages. All of the interviews conducted in the 1970s and 1980s, decades after Barnes fell from the train and became a historical parable about the necessity of sacrifice in war. 

Everyone knows that Bucky Barnes was a womanizer, rakish and charming but loyal to the end – just like everyone knows that Steve Rogers was as wholesome and all-American as apple pie.

Sam has seen Steve stab a man through the eye with a piece of rebar in Stavropol. Has seen him steal up behind enemy agents and blow their brains out before they ever got a chance to turn and face him; has personally witnessed Steve kicking sand into an enemy’s eyes and lashing out with his shield hard enough to shatter skulls during some of their raids on Hydra facilities if it meant maintaining stealth or keeping an advantage.

History doesn’t always tell the whole story, Sam thinks idly as his eyes linger on the furrowed creases in Bucky’s worn face.

There’s a whole lot more that never makes it into the books. 

Sam’s just imagining Riley’s voice in his head demanding _can’t you stay out of other peoples’ business for five fucking minutes, Sammy, I’m sick and tired of getting splashback from all these guys crying on your shoulder_ – when he hears Steve come back into the room.

“Well?” comes Steve’s voice, sounding guarded and earnest and cautiously eager-to-please all at once, as though he’s already expecting more criticism. “What do you think?”

Putting down the paper, Sam turns to take a look – and blinks.

Saying that Steve Rogers is good-looking is very much like saying “Natasha is badass” or “Bucky’s been working through some emotional problems lately”; it’s such an inadequate description that it’s almost comical in its understatement. And while Sam might not swing that way, strictly speaking, he’s more than comfortable enough with himself to admit that, right now? Steve looks _good_. 

The suit Steve is wearing is simple and straightforward and fits him like a glove. It’s nipped in at the waist in a way that highlights the rather startling broadness of his shoulders, the fabric itself black matte with a light pinstripe. There’s something else about it that Sam can’t quite put his finger on: something that makes it seem subtly antiquated but also deeply modern, as though someone has taken in their grandfather’s Sunday best and updated it in all the right ways. The shirt he’s wearing underneath is crisp and white, and he’s even wearing a subtle black vest to top it all off.

He’s holding a tie in each hand – one red, one blue – in a helpless kind of way that suggests he’s close to reaching the end of his rope. Sam looks up just long enough to catch the tentative expression on Steve’s face before he gives into temptation and glances over at Bucky.

The expression of unconcealed delight on Bucky’s face is so bright, so _shining_ , that Sam damn near feels uncomfortable looking at him. He’s dragging his eyes from the top of Steve’s head to the soles of his shoes, drinking him in as though he’s committing the image to memory.

Bucky is looking at Steve as though he’s the very best thing he’s ever seen, and for a moment Sam feels as though he’s interrupted a private moment.

“That bad?” Steve asks, wincing a little. After a moment, Bucky shakes his head.

“Nah,” says Bucky, still smiling and sounding a little bit like he’s just been punched in the chest, and oh god. There is nothing Sam wants more right now than to be halfway across town so that he could leave these two dumbasses to sort their shit out properly. “Nah. You look great, Stevie,” Bucky adds – before giving Steve the most broad, genuine grin that Sam can ever remember seeing on his face in real life. “Gonna knock ‘em dead.”

And Steve just _beams_ at him, standing tall and proud and shining like the fucking sun. It goes on for way too long, the two of them just locked in place and smiling at each other – before Steve seems to check himself. He glances uneasily over at Sam for a split-second as though suddenly aware of their audience, and Sam fucking _breaks_ because there’s only so much a man can take in a single afternoon.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Sam, breaking the silence with a scoff. “Just don’t try using any of that Captain America mojo to pick up girls at _my sister’s_ wedding, dude.” He shakes his head in a lamenting fashion, taking a final swig of coffee. “If anyone has the right to make terrible life choices tomorrow, it’s me.”

The words make Steve visibly relax, and he shoots Sam a wryly amused glance.

“I think I’ll leave that honour to you,” says Steve, but there’s a smile behind his eyes when he turns to look at Bucky that makes him look lighter, somehow, than he usually does. Makes him look more his age, because it’s easy to forget that despite everything Steve still is a very young man.

It’s been a long haul, yeah, and there’s a whole lot further for all of them to go. Right now, though, Sam can’t feel anything but grateful. That everything worked out the way it did; that all three of them are lucky enough to be here for this. 

Sam settles back into his chair contentedly. He can _feel_ the warmth of Bucky’s pleasure; can just catch glimpses of his grin out of the corner of his eye. Sam doesn’t want to look directly at Bucky’s happiness, though, as if it might disappear if someone lays eyes on it. 

After a beat, Bucky breaks the moment by huffing out a self-conscious laugh.

“Definitely the blue, by the way,” he says, nodding at one of the ties in Steve’s hands. He’s quieter than before but still happy; still content. Drawing back into himself without retreating completely. Sam half-expects him to provide a reason for the colour choice, but he doesn’t. Just leaves it hanging there, simple and straightforward.

Steve gives his head a shake, obligingly tossing the red tie onto the back of a chair and tucking the blue one in his pocket.

There is a long, comfortable pause.

“We should get going if you want to beat the traffic,” Steve says at last, turning his gaze on Sam with the single-minded determination that’s always slightly amusing to see outside the battlefield. “I’ll pack up the monkey suit so we can get going. Long drive ahead of us.”

“Yeah,” says Sam, already anticipating his mama’s expression when he brings _Captain America_ through her kitchen door.

Sam can see Steve visibly steeling himself up in front of him, can pick up the barest hint of quiet amusement from Bucky’s side of the table. For a second, he catches Bucky’s eyes.

If Captain America thinks he owes you a favour, he thinks, there are definitely worse ways to make good on it.

He downs the last of his cold coffee in a single swallow.

“Let’s roll,” Sam declares, before getting to his feet and preparing himself for the long drive home.

 

 

 

**The End**

 

 


End file.
